last to stand, last to fall
by ShinigamiForever
Summary: Sometimes, the way you want things to end don't end that way. And always, you just have to settle with what you get. A Seamus/Harry after war story.


last to stand, last to fall  
By: ShinigamiForever  
  
Warnings: Slash, general strangeness.  
  
Disclaimer: JK Rowling, the wonderful and lucky woman she is, owns HP, not me. So there.  
  
Summary: Sometimes, the way you want things to end don't end that way. And always, you just have to settle with what you get. A Seamus/Harry after war story.  
  
A/N: There's a reason why Seamus and Harry were picked. I needed a couple that probably wouldn't get together in my mind, but wouldn't be too improbably either. Also, most of the he's should be directing towards Harry. So in the sentence "he went to the beach," it reads "Harry went to the beach." Just read it. Enjoy.  
  
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He holds a cup of water in his hand instead of alcohol. Somewhere along the line of his life, he had promised himself never to drink. It seems not so much his life now as it is more of someone else who lived his life and promised that for him. But alcohol. He had refused to drink alcohol before because it reminded him of Uncle Vernon. Now, he is afraid of drinking because he knows that if he starts, he won't be able to stop. Not until he drinks himself into a dark abyss of oblivion.  
  
He's speaking to a bird-like woman with a large parrot beak nose and a horrendous pink dress. There is something very social about her; he's not sure what it is or what social means, but he sure that the way she acts and moves and holds her cup implies that she is social. He doesn't really say much to her, just sits and nods, his cup of water balanced asymmetrically in his hands like a tightrope walker. Her smile is smeared on her face like a clown and it is painted too red for him to enjoy.  
  
He glances across the room to where Seamus is talking with a silver blond haired man, and he squints to make sure he's seeing right. For a moment, the man has gray eyes and a smoothly angled face with thin long white fingers like beach sand. But then he opens his eyes and adjusts his glasses, and Seamus's companion becomes just another blur in the crowd.  
  
He looks for the clock and he looks at the bird woman and he tries to concentrate on both faces, and in his mind, a third face floats by, quiet and dead.  
  
The bird woman asks, are you married? And he looks at her, and smiles a smile that should have died long ago, and taps his glass calmly.  
  
It is moments like these he wishes he could drink himself away.  
  
  
  
  
He tells this story to Seamus, always starting with "once upon a time..." because it seems like that, once upon a time, and magical and enchanted and simply beautiful. So. Once upon a time, there was a little boy who was depressed. His magical fairy godfather (fairy as in the creature, not gay, although he _has_ wondered) sent him an owl to cheer him up (Chin up! Depression is not civic-minded behavior!). And so he cheered up (:: recycled applause::), met a beautiful boy and feel in love (:: romantic music plays in the background::). But the evil queen (:: Dum dum dum!::) came and destroyed the kingdom and killed the beautiful boy. The other boy who was depressed became depressed again. But he found another boy who loved him too, and we can only assume they lived happily ever after since there are no queers in fairy tales.  
  
And he tells this story to Seamus, and Seamus laughs a little, but in a bemused way, so he knows Seamus doesn't really understand. But that's okay, the point is that Seamus laughed, and he likes that Seamus is willing to put up with him enough to laugh. And sometimes after he's done telling the story, complete with sound effects, Seamus will cock his head in the curious dog-like way that he has and ask him, who's the boy? And he looks at Seamus, and asks, the boy who was depressed? And Seamus will shake his head no, and say, that boy was you. I'm asking about the boy who was killed. And he will look at Seamus with his eyes wide and sorrowful, and say, someone the boy was foolish enough to love.  
  
Foolish, Harry? Love is never foolish.  
  
You will be surprised, Seamus. There are times...  
  
Do you love me foolishly, Harry? Do you?  
  
And he will swoop down, brushing his fingers across Seamus's cheek, and shake his head. I love you with all that I'm worth, he answers, and then leans down to kiss Seamus, and Seamus will sigh softly, and give up.  
  
The truth is, you always hurt the one you love. And the point is, he's too tired to hurt anyone. And the problem is, he still loves. But maybe, not Seamus.  
  
  
  
  
Tell me, what do you regret most?  
  
Regret? I dunno. A lot of things. Mostly--  
  
What?  
  
Mostly, things to deal with... you know. Everything that happened.  
  
Hogwarts, you mean?   
  
Maybe. Hogwarts. The school. Giving up magic. Stuff like that.   
  
Stuff like Voldemort? And Dumbledore? And Hogwarts? Why can't you say the names, Seamus?  
  
Harry, I just don't like to.  
  
They're long dead! They're all long dead! They won't-- they can't--  
  
Long pause, so quiet he can hear Seamus's ragged breath, and Seamus looks away, closing his eyes tightly, and he thinks maybe those eyelids are locks on Seamus's eyes, held so tight he can't ever undo them. They haunt me, he whispers silently to himself, then out loud, and Seamus turns to him, the edges of his blond eyelashes wet, and Seamus says, yeah, they haunt me too.  
  
  
  
  
Sometimes, he listens to CDs, and he picks the ones that are full of piano music, soft, slow and haunting music. He listens to let the memories bleed out of his body, and he lets himself float to the music of the piano and the expert fingers that touch the keys. He knew someone long long ago who played the piano that way, with gentle fingers stroking away at the music like the wind blowing through wind chimes of leaves. Slow and effortless now, he lets the music carry himself, but only so far-- just so far until he touches on something cold and frost like, something as sleek and elegant as the music itself. And he listens until he can hear the music in the very soul of his body, so very vivid and blank that he isn't sure if he can pull his fingers around it.   
  
The piano chords are as ghostly as the faces he dreams of, and just as faint.  
  
  
  
  
Seamus is bright and sunshiny, bubbling out of his skin with exuberance. Life has not given up on Seamus yet, even though Seamus has seen as much red and gray and black destruction as he has, but Seamus. Seamus is bold and unfettered, like shafts of sunlight on his face, and Seamus is the soft A minor chords on rainy days. Seamus can go to parties and make everyone fall in love with him instantaneously. Seamus is blond haired and blue flashbulb eyed with rough edges to his bangs and child-like skin and hair that slightly curls around his ears. Seamus is built better than he is, broader shoulders and taller too, with firm arms and toned skin, sun kissed beautifully.   
  
Seamus is meant to live on. But not him. He's meant to fall apart and fade away.   
  
But he lives. Yes, he lives. And every morning, he gets up thinking, how long? How long until he stops?  
  
  
  
  
They're being talked about in the room, and he knows it. Seamus, broad and tall and handsome, with someone like him, a faint pink scar on his forehead and clumsy brown locks that have been cut but fall in his eyes anyway, tumble down like broken glass to cut his skin and eyes. And his eyes are shockingly green, cut and bleeding green that streams out from his eyes like liquid. And he is small and feminine like he was when he was younger, slim with willowy grace, cut down at the sides. Seamus usually tells him to eat more, as if by eating, he could flush out and erase all the bad memories that are stored deep in his bones.  
  
  
  
  
When they kiss, they kiss hard and quick, like the brilliant green flash of fireflies in the summer, and the flash is like the Avada Kevada curse, just as bright green. He thinks, yes, we are killing all of the memories, and the memories will fall away now. And sometimes he kisses along the line of Seamus's neck, taking in all of the skin and warmth because he's afraid he never will again. He kisses, and he thinks of a time he shared kisses with someone and back then those kisses were slow and burning and long and soft, like tidal waves, instead of the brilliant cursed kisses he shares now.  
  
And he glances at Seamus across the room, who is rubbing the back of his neck and looking like the tie might sever his throat. And Seamus rubs his neck and tries to loose his tie. Seamus is clumsy and Seamus is beautiful but Seamus is not--  
  
Is not--  
  
Could not be--  
  
  
  
  
Once, when the electricity failed, he tried reaching into his coat pocket for his wand and whispering Lumos, but when he placed his hand in his pocket, he couldn't feel anything, not the warm solidity and familiarity of his wand, and he crumpled up in a ball on the floor. That's how Seamus found him, on the floor with his hair tousled more than it should be, and the rims of his eyes pink and swollen.  
  
I tried-- I couldn't-- my wand. It's--  
  
And Seamus wraps him up and whispers, it's okay, it's okay, it's gonna be okay.   
  
He thinks, no it won't. And he thinks, old habits, unlike old friends, are hard to kill.  
  
  
  
  
There's a song that Seamus sings, and it's an old Muggle song for children. Sometimes, Seamus sings it at night when Seamus thinks he's asleep, but he usually never sleeps, because when he does, he dreams of red, be it red blood or red fire or red anger. So, he doesn't sleep, and he hears Seamus's ghostly echo voice singing:  
  
The sailor went to sea, sea, sea  
to see what he could see, see, see  
but all that he could see, see, see  
was the bottom of the big blue sea, sea, sea  
  
When Seamus sings, he thinks of blue instead of red, and he dreams of the sailor jumping off his boat and being trapped in blue, and the blue is the blue of a summer sky and Seamus's eyes and Seamus's voice and the gray of someone who is dead and long gone, someone of fairy tales. He dreams of the sailor, looking at the pale blond finger-like sand beneath him, and he shoves his face deep into the pillow to keep himself from crying too loud.  
  
And Seamus sings, at night:  
  
But all that he could see, see, see  
was the bottom of the big blue sea, sea, sea...  
  
  
  
===  
  
A/N: Um. Reviews, anyone? Please? They are hugged and kissed with great fervor when received!  
  
"Old habits, unlike old friends, are hard to kill" along with the line " And we can only assume they lived happily ever after since there are no queers in fairy tales" both belong to Ashlea for her wonderful story "Earthquakes," which was the main inspiration for this story. 


End file.
